The.  ’Tis no pain
I suffer through disease, no beating vein
Conveyes infection dangerous to the heart,
No part impostum’d to be cur’d by Art,
This body holds; and yet a feller grief
Than ever skilfull hand did give relief
Dwells on my soul, and may be heal’d by you,
Fair beauteous Virgin.

Clor.  Then Shepherd, let me sue To know thy grief; that man yet never knew The way to health, that durst not shew his sore.

Then.  Then fairest, know, I love you.

C[l]or.  Swain, no more,
Thou hast abus’d the strictness of this place,
And offred Sacrilegious foul disgrace
To the sweet rest of these interred bones,
For fear of whose ascending, fly at once,
Thou and thy idle passions, that the sight
Of death and speedy vengeance may not fright
Thy very soul with horror.

Then.  Let me not (Thou all perfection) merit such a blot For my true zealous faith.

Clor.  Dar’st thou abide
To see this holy Earth at once divide
And give her body up? for sure it will,
If thou pursu’st with wanton flames to fill
This hallowed place; therefore repent and goe,
Whilst I with praise appease his Ghost below,
That else would tell thee what it were to be
A rival in that vertuous love that he
Imbraces yet.

Then.  ’Tis not the white or red
Inhabits in your cheek that thus can wed
My mind to adoration; nor your eye,
Though it be full and fair, your forehead high,
And smooth as Pelops shoulder; not the smile
Lies watching in those dimples to beguile
The easie soul, your hands and fingers long
With veins inamel’d richly, nor your tongue,
Though it spoke sweeter than Arions Harp,
Your hair wove into many a curious warp,
Able in endless errour to infold
The wandring soul, nor the true perfect mould
Of all your body, which as pure doth show
In Maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow. 
All these, were but your constancie away,
Would please me less than a black stormy day
The wretched Seaman toyling through the deep. 
But whilst this honour’d strictness you dare keep,
Though all the plagues that e’re begotten were
In the great womb of air, were setled here,
In opposition, I would, like the tree,
Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free
Even in the arm of danger.

Clor.  Wouldst thou have
Me raise again (fond man) from silent grave,
Those sparks that long agoe were buried here,
With my dead friends cold ashes?

Then.  Dearest dear,
I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant;
Stand strongly to your vow, and do not faint: 
Remember how he lov’d ye, and be still
The same Opinion speaks ye; let not will,
And that great god of women, appetite,
Set up your blood again; do not invite
Desire and fancie from their long exile,